


Five Times Sam Wilson Helped Bucky Barnes (And One Time Bucky Helped Sam)

by usakeh



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-04
Updated: 2014-09-04
Packaged: 2018-02-15 23:00:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2246544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/usakeh/pseuds/usakeh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The title says it all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Times Sam Wilson Helped Bucky Barnes (And One Time Bucky Helped Sam)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jjjat3am](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jjjat3am/gifts).



> The fourth section has a LOT of suicidal ideation in it, so if that's triggering to you, you may want to skip it.

They were dancing together in their new living room, vitality and life in each of their movements.

Then, the bullets came in, perfect shots. They fell like puppets, motionless without strings.  
  
They had been so vibrantly _alive_ , and now there was nothing there.  
  
The memories came faster then, one after the other, of Bucky Barnes in the war and the more fragmented ones belonging to the Winter Soldier.  
  
And there was so much blood.  
  
_There was just so much blood._  
  
He couldn’t breathe. He slipped out of bed and ran to the bathroom. After throwing up the little he’d eaten at dinner, he slid down until he was sitting on the cool tiled floor. Bucky tried to take deep breaths, like Sam had taught him. He tried every trick, every strategy. Nothing worked.  
  
Then something changed. He felt far away. Nothing was quite real; nothing could touch him. This was bad, he knew. He needed to come back from that far away place, and fast. Not knowing what else to do, he started pounding on the hard floor with his right fist, so hard it hurt. He focused on the pain.  
  
“Bucky?”  
  
He’d woken up Sam. It didn’t matter. If he didn’t keep doing this, he’d wake up Sam anyway, only it’d be much, much, _much_ worse.  
  
“Hey, Bucky, take it easy. You’re going to break your hand,” Sam said, coming closer.  
  
Sam moved slowly. Maybe, Bucky thought, he wasn’t sure who he was going to meet: Bucky, or the Winter Soldier. Bucky didn’t blame him for being scared. In fact, he was glad that Sam, unlike Steve, seemed to have a strong sense of self-preservation.  
  
Granted, he had first found his way to Sam’s apartment, he’d only gone into Winter Soldier mode once. But once had been more than enough, for both of them. Bucky couldn’t let it happen again; he just _couldn’t._  
  
“Don’t worry. It’s still me. For now,” Bucky said, after a pause.  
  
“So that’s why you’re hitting the floor with your fist so hard it’s making the floor shake.”  
  
Bucky nodded.  
  
“How about punching an actual punching bag instead?”  
  
“It won’t hurt. It has to _hurt_ ,” Bucky responded.  
  
“I know something else that will hurt, but won’t leave your hand injured.”  
  
“You do?” Bucky continued pounding on the floor as he spoke, unconvinced.  
  
“C’mon, how about you at least _try_ it before judging?”  
  
“Okay. I’ll try it,” Bucky responded, reluctantly.  
  
Bucky tried to focus on following what Sam did as he pulled a tray of ice out and poured it into a big bowl. Ice? How the hell was a bowl full of ice going to help?  
  
“You’re going to melt the ice with your hand, okay? It’ll stop you from dissociating. I know that it doesn’t seem like it, but it’ll hurt plenty if you give it a little time,” Sam said, placing the bowl of ice on the floor next to Bucky.  
  
Bucky immediately wrapped his fist around some of the ice cubes.  
  
After a long pause, he managed to say, “I had a bad dream. I shot this couple while they were dancing together in their apartment. And then once I woke up, it got worse and worse until I started feeling like everything was very far away.”  
  
“So you were worried that if you kept dissociating, you’d have an episode?”  
  
Bucky nodded.  
  
“Is the ice helping?”  
  
After another pause, Bucky nodded again.  
  
“I’m sorry that I woke you up.”  
  
“It’s okay, Bucky.”  
  
“No,” Bucky said, picking up another handful of ice cubes, “it’s not. I’ve caused you so much trouble. I wish that Steve had just killed me on the helicarrier. He probably could have, if I didn’t happen to look like his best friend. But I’m not that person.”  
  
“That’s true,” Sam responded. “But as you get better, you’ll learn that you can be somebody new. And you’ll learn to like that somebody. I’m not saying that it’ll be quick, or easy. You’ve been through a lot.”  
  
“I wasn’t a victim! _They_ were victims, that young couple I killed. I was a killer. I still am. I came very close to slipping back into it tonight.”  
  
_There was just so much blood._  
  
Bucky shut his eyes and focused on the burning feeling in his right hand.  
  
“Bucky? Still with me?”  
  
Bucky nodded.  
  
“We’ll talk about the other stuff later. This is what I just saw: you came real close to having an episode, but instead of letting it happen, you fought it. That’s progress,” Sam said, gently but firmly.  
  
“I’m not sure about that.”  
  
“That’s okay. You don’t have to be sure. I’ll be sure, for you, until you can be.”  
  
“Thanks, Sam,” Bucky finally said. “I don’t think that I deserve such dedication, from you of all people. I remember how we met now, you know.”  
  
“That wasn’t you. That was the Winter Soldier. He was you, and he’ll always be a part of your past. But I met _you_ when you showed up here, three months ago.”  
  
“You had no reason to trust me or let me in, yet you did.”  
  
Sam chucked.  
  
“You collapsed when I opened the door. You were sick and starving, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen anybody so scared. And I’m glad that I dragged you in, because you’re a good man, Bucky. I know you can’t believe that right now, but you are.”  
  
“And until I can, you’ll believe it for me?”  
  
“You got that right.”  
  
Sam smiled, and when Bucky looked up and saw his expression, he smiled, too.

* * *

Sometimes, choosing was hard.  
  
He was used to orders; as the Winter Soldier, he’d never known anything else. He’d never had to _choose_ , never had to realize that he liked some things and didn’t like others. There was no place for personal preference in the Winter Soldier’s life.  
  
So, when Sam first dumped a bag full of new clothing on his bed, he wasn’t sure what to do with it all. How was he supposed to decide what to wear? He’d told Sam that, really, one outfit was sufficient. Sam had reminded him that most people had more than one outfit, and that the one thing he currently wore was falling apart from being washed so many times.  
  
He also told him that he’d gotten him a variety of items, and that if he had a favorite, they could go back to that store and get more of it. It was all very strange and new to him. Not only did his personal preferences matter, but they’d actually have an effect on his life. If he liked something, they’d get more of it. He’d told Sam that he wasn’t sure what he liked yet. Sam had said that this was fine. He’d figure it out in time.  
  
Sam was right.  
  
At least, he did find _one_ thing he absolutely loved wearing: hoodies. The one that Sam had gotten him was a bit too big, but that’s what made it so perfect. It completely concealed his metal arm, and he could hide away in it when he felt too overwhelmed to talk. And it was so soft, even after being washed countless times.  
  
“Bucky, I didn’t get you a whole bunch of new clothes just so that you could only wear one thing again,” Sam commented one morning. “If you keep washing that hoodie, it’s going to fall apart too. This is good, though. You’ve figured out what you like. Now we can go get more of them at the store.”  
  
Suddenly, Bucky was filled with dread. He hadn’t left the apartment once during the day, even though Sam was always asking him to accompany him on errands. When he’d been living on the streets, it was different. People had actively avoided him. He hadn’t had to interact with anyone, as a result. And he hadn’t been exactly lucid most of the time, anyway.  
  
This would be very different. He’d be surrounded by people, and expected to behave normally. He couldn’t get spooked at the slightest unexpected sound. Lastly, there was always the possibility that he’d have an episode at the store, and hurt people. He couldn’t take that risk, not yet.  
  
“Let me guess: you don’t want to go to the store,” Sam said.  
  
Bucky nodded.  
  
“You know, you really have to work on that. Not necessarily _now_ , but at some point you are going to have to go out of the apartment during the day. I know that you take walks sometimes in the middle of the night. That’s a start.”  
  
“It’s different late at night. It’s quieter, I guess,” Bucky responded.  
  
He’d remembered enough about the old Bucky Barnes by now to be able to realize how absurd this was. He was Brooklyn born and bred. And now he couldn’t deal with a city as comparatively quiet as D.C.?  
  
“Bucky, it’s okay. A lot of veterans struggle with noisy environments. Trust me, I know,” Sam said. When Bucky didn’t respond, he added, “You don’t have to be ashamed of it, is what I’m saying.”  
  
“How do I fix it?” Bucky asked.  
  
“You readjust slowly. I have some ideas as to what might help. But, mostly, it’s like I’ve been telling you lately: you need a therapist.”  
  
Bucky started pacing back and forth. Everything about that made him anxious. Opening up to somebody new wasn’t going to be easy.  
  
“But how I am supposed to tell anybody else about who I was? They might not even believe me. And if they do, what if they want to lock me up for everything I did? I mean, I wouldn’t blame them. I deserve it,” he finally said, staring down at the floor.  
  
“You _don’t_ deserve it, and you know _exactly_ why that is.”  
  
“Because it wasn’t my fault,” Bucky said, wearily.  
  
“That’s right.” Sam sighed. “I’ll find you somebody. Hell, we’ve all recently found out that there are _aliens_ out there. Anything’s possible these days. They’ll believe you. Just promise me that you’ll see somebody, once I find the right person?”  
  
“Okay, okay. I promise that I’ll see somebody,” Bucky responded, reluctantly.  
  
“Good. Now, I think I know what to do about your obsession with that damn hoodie you’re wearing,” Sam said, smiling. “I’m about to teach you one of the coolest things about this time period: ordering stuff online.”  
  
Sam sat down at his desk, opened his computer, and beckoned for Bucky to approach. Sam had already shown him the basics about how to use the internet, and he sometimes used it to catch up on some of the history he’d missed on his good days. He still preferred books, but when he had random questions, he had to admit nothing could beat searching for answers on the internet.  
  
“So, can you take that hoodie off for a second, so that I can see where I bought it and what size it is? It’s kind of big on you, but you seem to like that. Right?” Sam asked.  
  
Bucky nodded, slipped off the hoodie, and handed it to Sam. Within seconds, he was staring at a picture of the hoodie on the screen. Sam handed the hoodie back, and he immediately slipped back into it.  
  
“You want them all in black, or some other colors too?” Sam asked.  
  
“You can choose,” Bucky replied. “I have no preference.”  
  
“C’mon, man. You must like black, or you wouldn’t be wearing the one I originally got you so damn much. So I’ll get at least two more in that color. Do you like any _other_ colors, though? Blue? Green? Red?”  
  
Bucky shook his head, immediately, when Sam mentioned red. Red reminded him of how he got the star on his metal arm, and all sorts of other things about which he didn’t want to think now, or ever.  
  
“Okay, so not red. See? You’ve got plenty of preferences! You were just taught that they didn’t matter, so you’re trained not to talk about them. But now, they matter, all right? You got that, Bucky? They matter.”  
  
Bucky nodded.  
  
“I like blue, I think. But mostly black,” he said after a long pause.  
  
“Good! That’s a start. I’ll order four black ones, and one in blue,” Sam said, pulling out his wallet. He extracted a small plastic rectangle from it and proceeded to type a bunch of numbers into the computer. A few seconds later, he said, “And now that’s done! They should be here by the end of the week.”  
  
“Thanks, Sam,” Bucky said, quietly.  
  
Sometimes, choosing was hard.  
  
But it was always significantly less so when Sam was around.

* * *

When the day finally came, Bucky was beyond nervous. He trusted Sam to find the right person. It wasn’t that. It was the prospect of going through his past, of actively _trying_ to remember all the horrible moments he usually was so careful to avoid. Of course, they came to him anyway, in dreams or flashbacks that left him sick and trembling. But now he was supposed to discuss them with a stranger?  
  
The prospect was so terrifying he barely slept the night before, and was actually shaking in his seat as Sam drove them out of D.C. and into the suburbs.  
  
“It’s going to be okay, Bucky. Kalinda’s very nice, and very patient,” Sam said.  
  
When he noticed that Bucky was trembling, he instinctively reached out, and then froze. Sometimes Bucky reacted really well to touch, and even seemed to seek it out; at other times, however, he’d jerk away. Sam had learned to ask first.  
  
“Can I put my hand on your shoulder?”  
  
Bucky nodded. Sam’s touch was warm, comforting.  
  
“Take a few deep breaths,” Sam advised.  
  
Bucky did as Sam instructed and focused on taking a few deep breaths. It helped, a little. He felt stupid for being so overwhelmed by the prospect of starting therapy. Like Sam said, Kalinda wasn’t going to push him too far. She wasn’t there to hurt him; she was there to _help_ him.  
  
And he needed help. A hell of a lot of it, in fact. He knew that much. So far, he’d been relying exclusively on Sam, but there were limits to what Sam could do. Plus, he wanted to be Sam’s _friend_ , not a constant burden. So he was doing the right thing.  
  
“Nice and quiet out here, huh?” Sam commented as they pulled up to a grey house with a nice, neatly tended garden.  
  
Bucky nodded.  
  
“I’m going to wait for you in the car. I’ll always drive you back and forth, but I won’t usually do that. But since today’s your first session, I figured I would stay.”  
  
“You don’t have to do that,” Bucky said, shakily. “Thanks, though. It helps.”  
  
“Now, I’ve talked to Kalinda a lot about your situation. But I also wrote something up based on what we discussed,” Sam said, handing Bucky a sheet of paper. “Feel free to read it before you give it to her. And, of course, you don’t have to give it to her at all.”  
  
“I can’t read it right now. But I will give it to her. I trust you,” Bucky said.  
  
“All right.” Sam sighed. “Can I give you a hug? It looks like you could use one.”  
  
Bucky nodded, and Sam wrapped strong arms around him and pulled him in close. Bucky loved Sam’s smell, loved the warmth of his touch. He didn’t want the embrace to end. When it finally did, Sam smiled at him.  
  
“Okay. Time for you to go meet her. It’ll be fine, I promise,” Sam said.  
  
Bucky nodded. Then, before he lost his nerve, he got out of the car, hurried up the steps, and rang the doorbell. Moments later, a short woman with olive skin and black eyes appeared. She was younger looking than Bucky thought she’d be.  
  
“I’m Sam’s friend, Bucky,” Bucky said, clutching the paper Sam had given him so tightly he almost tore it apart.  
  
“Welcome, Bucky. I’m Kalinda. Come on in,” she said, holding the door open for him and ushering him into a warm, cozy room with a black chair in the center.  
  
Kalinda gestured to the sofa facing the black chair, and Bucky sat down, immediately looking for all the quickest exits. Once he’d identified them, he turned back to Kalinda and handed her the notes Sam had written up for her.  
  
“Sam wrote this up for you,” he explained.  
  
“He’s such a sweetheart. And he’s very protective of you; you have no idea how many questions he had before he asked me to treat you. But there’s no reason for either of you to worry, okay? I think we’re going to get along just fine.”  
  
Kalinda let him look around the room once again. When his gaze returned to her, she smiled at him.  
  
“Today, we’ll take it easy. We’ll start on the real work next time. And while I don’t want to scare you, you should know that it will be just that: work. Hard work. It’ll be exhausting, and sometimes it’ll be scary. But if you want to get better – and given everything I’ve heard from Sam, it seems like you do – it’ll be worth it,” Kalinda said.  
  
“I _do_ want to fix this. I don’t want to be a burden anymore. Sam has to put way too much time and energy into helping me do even the simplest things,” Bucky said, staring down at the floor.  
  
“I’m glad you want to ‘fix this,’ as you put it, but I hope that as we work together you’ll start to want to get better for yourself, not just to avoid ‘burdening’ Sam. Your captors, from what I understand, treated you like a tool instead of like a person.”  
  
“I was a weapon,” Bucky said flatly.  
  
“Exactly. A weapon, not a person. A big part of what we’re going to work on is getting you to see yourself as a person again, as someone who has his own needs, his own desires. And you’ll have to realize that that’s okay. Necessary, even.”  
  
Bucky nodded.  
  
“Okay. I can tell that you’re really tense. It must have been hard to come here, to decide to try and open up to somebody new. That you even came here is a _huge_ step in the right direction. So, today, we’re just going to play a game.”  
  
“A game?”  
  
“I have a ton of them. I work with kids and teens, too, and sometimes it’s easiest to talk to them while we’re playing a game with which they’re familiar. It helps them feel safe. Do you have any game you like? Card games? Checkers? Chess?”  
  
_Chess_.  
  
Bucky suddenly remembered one handler he’d had. He’d played chess with him, taught him Russian. When he’d failed to take out both targets on a mission, they’d had him shoot the handler. The new one wasn’t as nice. No more chess.  
  
Bucky took a deep breath, pressed his nails into his right palm.  
  
“Hey, Bucky? Want to tell me where you went just now?”  
  
Slowly, hesitatingly, he managed to explain it.  
  
“Thank you for sharing that memory with me. It couldn’t have been easy,” Kalinda responded. “See? Look at you. You’re good at this already,” she added, before getting up slowly and opening up one of the closets in the room.  
  
“What game are we going to play?” Bucky asked.  
  
“A new one. It’s called Set; you have to find patterns in the cards. I think you’ll like it.”  
  
She was right; he did. Focusing on the patterns in the cards turned out to be very calming. Plus, he was _good_ at it. They played for forty-five minutes and chatted a bit afterwards. Then, to Bucky’s surprise, Kalinda said that their time was up.  
  
“So you liked Set quite a bit,” Kalinda said, putting the cards back into their box.  
  
Bucky nodded.  
  
“Well, you know what? This is yours now,” she said, giving him the box. “You can teach Sam; then, if you’re ever feeling really tense and he has time, you can play.”  
  
“You sure you want to give this to me?” Bucky asked.  
  
“Absolutely.”  
  
Bucky took the box and smiled.  
  
“Thank you.”  
  
“You’re welcome. I’ll see you next Saturday, okay? We’ll start some of the real work then, so be ready.”  
  
Bucky nodded; after thanking Kalinda again for the game, he walked back to the car. He felt better already. Sure, they hadn’t really done any work together yet. But Sam had been right. Meeting with Kalinda was going to be good for him.  
  
Sam was sleeping in the car, so Bucky tapped gently on the window. Startled, Sam awoke. As Sam rubbed his eyes, Bucky got into the passenger seat.  
  
“So, how was it? As bad as you thought it would be?” Sam asked.  
  
“I like her. She even gave me this game,” Bucky said, showing the box to Sam.  
  
Sam started the car, heading back to their – no, _Sam’s_ , Bucky reminded himself, as he was only a guest – D.C. apartment.  
  
“Thank you for finding her for me. And thank you for driving me here,” Bucky said.  
  
“I’m just glad that you two hit it off so well. It’s going to be rough going at first, but that’s why I’ll always be here, waiting to pick you up.”  
  
“Thanks, Sam.” Bucky paused, then added, “Sometimes I just don’t understand how you can be so kind to me.”  
  
“Why? Because you were the Winter Soldier? He’s part of your past, and, sure, you’ll always have his memories. But you – the man I’m talking to right now – are _not_ the same guy who kicked me off of that helicarrier. And as hard as it is for you to believe, I really like the man I’m talking to right now.”  
  
_I really like the man I’m talking to right now.  
  
_ It didn’t make _sense_ ; somehow, however, it still made him smile.

* * *

It started one Saturday in December, after his weekly therapy session.  
  
No. It started before that. It kind of crept up on him, over time.  
  
Kalinda noticed it first. He was unusually quiet, even by his standards, and didn’t even want to play Set at the end of his sessions. When she asked him what was wrong, after one session, he simply said, “I don’t know.”  
  
It was true: he didn’t know. It was everything, and it was nothing. His flashbacks were more frequent than ever. Even sleep was no escape. Every single night, without fail, he woke up screaming.  
  
Kalinda reminded him that when they’d started, she’d warned him that things were probably going to get worse before they got better. As more memories resurfaced, he was going to feel more guilt, more sadness. It was only natural.  
  
Sam noticed it, too. He did a hundred small things to make life as easy as possible for him, and was always trying to get him to engage with things, to find hobbies and interests. It would help him feel better, he promised.  
  
They were both so sure that he could be saved, but the truth was there was no returning from the things he had done. Steve should have killed him, that day on the helicarrier. It would be better, for everyone, if he were dead.  
  
_It would be better, for everyone, if he were dead._  
  
In the end, it came down to that one simple truth.  
  
On their last meeting of the year, Kalinda asked him whether he felt suicidal. He shook his head. It would be okay if he had, she’d said. Things had changed since the forties. They’d learned that depression was a disease like any physical ailment.  
  
“Really, I’m fine,” he’d said.  
  
He’d lied, of course. He wasn’t fine. But he wasn’t “depressed” either. Depression sounded like something that happened to innocent people who had no reason to be miserable. He was no innocent, and he had plenty of reasons to be sad.  
  
He was letting Steve down, for one. He still couldn’t as much as meet the guy for a cup of coffee without being what Kalinda referred to as “triggered.” Sam had assured him that it was fine, that Steve was willing to wait until he was better.  
  
But, really, it wouldn’t matter how long he waited. Even when seeing Steve didn’t make him dizzy as old and new memories spun around inside him, he wouldn’t be the man Steve remembered. He wouldn’t be the person Steve longed to have back.  
  
He was letting Sam down, too. And Kalinda, he supposed. He was supposed to be getting _better_. This phase had lasted long enough. Yet the memories just kept coming, and he felt less and less like doing anything.  
  
He’d lie in bed most of the day, awake but too exhausted to even get up to make himself anything to eat. He’d mentally list all of the things he’d done, all of the reasons he didn’t even _deserve_ to live. He’d think about how to end it.  
  
He’d never been meant to live in this century anyway; had he not become the Winter Soldier, had they not frozen him, he’d be dead for sure. He didn’t like this century. He didn’t understand it, and despite all of Sam’s help, he never would.  
  
Sometimes he imagined what hell would be like.  
  
If it existed, after all, that’s where he’d end up. He was a murderer of innocents. He’d been too weak to resist their conditioning because, deep down, there was a part of him that had – that _must_ have – wanted to do it.  
  
Which hell was worse, he wondered: the one he was living in now, or the one he’d go to, when he died?  
  
Most likely, however, there was no hell.  
  
He didn’t want to make a mess. He didn’t want Sam to find him lying in a pool of his own blood in the kitchen, not after everything Sam had done for him. He’d have to do it elsewhere. When Sam found out, he’d be sad. But in the end, he’d be better off. _  
  
_ Sam had a gun. He’d thought that Bucky had been asleep when he’d gone to hide it. So, he decided, he’d just sneak out with it on New Year’s Eve. He’d find an alleyway, some place where no policemen were patrolling, where no revelers were celebrating the start of the new year. He’d do it there.  
  
After he decided, after he figured out every detail of the plan, he felt as though a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He was almost happy. This nightmare wasn’t going to last much longer; he was almost – _almost_ – free.  
  
On The Day, Sam said that he was going to go get ready for a party. He was welcome to join him. Bucky nodded. Sure, I’ll come, he said. It didn’t matter what he said. He just needed Sam to step into his room for a moment so he could grab the gun and go.  
  
Bucky crept out of his room and moved stealthily towards the hiding spot.  
  
When he opened the drawer, it was empty.  
  
He sank down on the floor and, for the first time in seventy years, started to sob.  
  
Sam emerged from his room. He didn’t say anything. Instead, he simply wrapped his arms around Bucky and held him close.  
  
Amazingly, for a few precious seconds, Bucky felt safe.

* * *

“What have you had to eat today?” Sam asked, settling down by Bucky’s side.  
  
“I don’t think I ate anything.”  
  
“To drink?”  
  
“Water. I think. Yes, definitely water.”  
  
“You, Bucky Barnes, are a disaster. You _promised_ me that you’d have something to eat before I left for the VA. You _promised_ me that you’d take care of yourself.”  
  
“I did?”  
  
Sam rolled his eyes.  
  
“Well, now I’m home, and I’m going to make sure you get some proper food and fluids in you. You will do better tomorrow, okay?”  
  
Bucky nodded.  
  
“And today was because of the flu, right? None of the other stuff?”  
  
“None of the other stuff. I had a few flashbacks. But I don’t have any desire to off myself thanks to you, Kalinda, Jemma, and those pink pills she prescribes me.”  
  
Those pink pills really had saved his life; without them, Bucky thought, he wouldn’t have made it another month. After Sam realized how bad it had gotten, he’d done some research on finding somebody equipped to make sense of Bucky’s brain. After asking a near catatonic Bucky if he could involve Steve in the search, he ended up entrusting Bucky’s care to a young scientist, Jemma Simmons.  
  
Bucky had liked her immediately. She was terribly curious about _everything_ , but she never allow that to get in the way of her compassion. She realized that just about everything about having his brain tampered with, in any way, would be a terrible trigger for Bucky, and tried to make his experience with her pretty much the diametric opposite of what it had been like when Hydra had him.  
  
After a few days, she tried him on one cocktail; when that didn’t work, she went back, studied the data some more, and decided to put him on a old drug from the sixties. It was powerful and, for some people, miraculously effective in curing clinical depression. The side effects were a pain – there was a whole list of foods to avoid, and if you failed to avoid them, you could end up with anything from a horrid headache to a hypertensive crisis – but the results made the endeavor worth it.  
  
Bucky and Jemma stayed in touch through email, and they video chatted once every two weeks to make sure that things were still okay. He’d started working with Kalinda again, too, once the worst passed.  
  
“Bucky?”  
  
"What?"  
  
“You took your first and second doses, right? With the water you drank?”  
  
Bucky nodded.  
  
“Good. Anyway, now that I’m home, you’re getting the full Sam Wilson flu treatment.”  
  
Bucky smiled weakly before falling prey to a coughing fit.  
  
“See, _this_ is why I got my flu shot,” Sam said.  
  
“Don’t gloat, Sam. I’m too sick to kick your ass.”  
  
“And that’s exactly why I’m getting all my gloating done now,” Sam joked.  
  
Bucky narrowed his eyes.  
  
“I will get you for this, Sam Wilson.”  
  
“First, you’re getting your temperature taken.” Sam opened his messenger bag to reveal a bag from a local pharmacy. He poured the contents out on Bucky’s bed. The minute Bucky spotted one bag, his eyes lit up.  
  
“You got those peach candies I love!” Bucky exclaimed.  
  
“I did indeed. First, soup. Well, first this. Then Tylenol. Then soup and peach rings.”  
  
“This might be enough for me to consider not planning an elaborate revenge,” Bucky responded, then went quiet as Sam unwrapped the digital thermometer.  
  
“Can you breathe okay through your nose?” Sam asked.  
  
Bucky shook his head.  
  
“Okay, under your right arm, then.”  
  
He handed Bucky the thermometer, and Bucky slipped it under about five layers of clothing so that it touched the skin beneath his right arm. It felt so cold, and even with the hoodies and coat, he was already freezing. When it beeped, he extracted it and handed it to Sam.  
  
“102.5°,” Sam read. “No wonder you’re freezing. You get the maximum dose.”  
  
Sam took some pills out of the container, and handed then to Bucky along with a bottle of blue Gatorade. Sam had even remembered that blue was his favorite color, which was strangely sweet. Bucky took the pills, coughed a few times, and then went back under the blankets.  
  
It was perplexing, really. He used to be almost ridiculously healthy. _Steve_ would be sick all the time, and he’d _never_ catch it. Now he seemed to get sick every other week. He wondered, sometimes, if all the stuff Hydra had done to him had destroyed his immune system. That would be a question for Jemma, next time they spoke.  
  
“You ready for some soup? I bought miso at the Japanese place, and then remembered that you can’t eat it. So I’ll be having that. You’ll be having boring old chicken and rice from a can. I’ll be right back; I’m just going to go and warm it up.”  
  
“Seriously? You forgot that I can’t have miso? Now the revenge is still on. You tease me with that miso soup mention, knowing that I love it, before telling me I’m getting some boring stuff out of a can? Not okay, Wilson.”  
  
“Sorry,” Sam said, laughing.  
  
“And now you’re laughing at me.”  
  
“Do you realize how completely pathetic you look right now, Barnes? You have, like, ten hoodies packed on, and you’re buried beneath a huge pile of blankets. So you’ll have to forgive me if your threat doesn’t inspire much fear in me.”  
  
“Really?” Bucky sat back up with some difficulty and tossed off the blankets. He made it to his feet for about five seconds before promptly collapsing again. “Yeah, I see your point,” he acquiesced at last.  
  
“Feared former assassin felled by flu virus,” Sam joked.  
  
When Bucky didn’t respond at all, he nervously approached to make sure he hadn’t gone too far. Bucky was erratic in this respect. Sometimes he’d be fine with kidding around about his time as the Winter Soldier. At other times, it would really upset him. Sam was usually pretty attuned to his moods and could act accordingly, but even he could mess up on occasion.  
  
“Bucky?”  
  
“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. Just tired. Really, Sam,” Bucky added upon seeing Sam was still worried. “You are the best thing to happen to me in a very long time, you know.”  
  
“I think I better check that fever again,” Sam joked, then sat down beside Bucky, unopened can of soup still in hand.  
  
“You are, though. I put you through so much, and you just stuck by me. And every time I feel like there’s nothing valuable about the person I’m turning out to be, I remind myself that you haven’t left. You’re so _good_ , Sam, so _right_ that if you’ve stayed by my side through all of it, it must mean that you’re either crazy or that I’m somehow worth the effort.”  
  
“You’re worth the effort, Bucky. Please believe me. I know it’s hard. I know you spent years being told that you weren’t even a person at all. But you are, and you are most _certainly_ worth the effort. Why do you think Kalinda and Jemma have worked so hard to help you?”  
  
“Because they’re paid to do it?”  
  
“They’re both busy enough. They don’t just need another patient. They do it for the same reason I help you: because you’re a good man, Bucky Barnes. The terrible things that happened to you did not make you the person you are now. Sure, they left their mark, and it’s one I don’t know that you’ll ever fully erase. But you are more than what Hydra made you, so much more. I wish that I could convince–”  
  
“You do. Every single day you don’t just pack up and leave me, you do.”  
  
With surprising strength, Bucky pulled Sam close and into a kiss. Just as he began to wonder whether it had been the right move, Sam kissed him back. Deeply. Desperately. As if he’d been waiting for this for a long, long time. Bucky kissed him again, and again Sam’s response had an urgency to it that made it feel _right_. Finally, physically exhausted, Bucky collapsed back on the bed.  
  
“I completely forgot you were sick for a second there,” Sam finally said.  
  
“Me too,” Bucky said, reaching out for Sam’s hand.  
  
Sam took his hand in his free one immediately.  
  
“Oh, fuck. I need that soup. Now that I have more motivation, I want to make sure that I get better _fast_ ,” Bucky said.  
  
Sam laughed.  
  
“I’ll be right back, babe.”  
  
He was. Before he handed the hot soup over to Bucky, Sam placed it on his bedside table and leaned in for another kiss. Bucky responded eagerly. He’d imagined this so many times, since his depression had lifted; this felt too good to be true.  
  
“Is this real? Or am I delirious and hallucinating?” Bucky asked when they separated again. “I can’t believe you feel the same way.”  
  
“Oh, it’s real all right,” Sam said. “Now eat your damn soup. You are going to have the quickest recovery from this flu that I’ve ever seen.”  
  
They both laughed at that.

* * *

“RILEY!”  
  
The scream came from Sam’s bedroom. Bucky instantly went on the alert. Something was wrong. He was up from an earlier nightmare he couldn’t quite manage to shake, even in the now familiar apartment at dawn. But now something was wrong, definitely wrong, and – this came almost as a revelation – he could help Sam, for once, rather than it being the other way around.  
  
“RILEY, NO!”  
  
Bucky, still in his pajamas, rushed over to Sam’s bed and, as gently as he could, shook him awake.  
  
“It’s okay, Sam. You’re here with me. You’re safe,” Bucky said.  
  
_It’s okay. You’re here with me. You’re safe._  
  
Sam always used the same words, with him; he could only hope they’d help Sam as they did him.  
  
Sam fought his way out of the nightmare, took hold of Bucky’s right hand, and squeezed it tight.  
  
Bucky squeezed back.  
  
“Thanks,” Sam said hoarsely, after he reoriented himself. “I hate that dream. But I guess it helps me remember him. I can’t lose the memory; now, it’s all I have left.”  
  
Bucky wasn’t sure what to say to that.  
  
“I remember other things about him too, of course. Happy memories. And I have my photo albums,” Sam continued.  
  
“That’s good,” Bucky said.  
  
“Thanks again for waking me.”  
  
“No problem. You’d do the same for me. I’m sorry that I’m not very good at this helping thing.”  
  
“You’re doing fine, Bucky.”  
  
Sam smiled, genuinely smiled.  
  
“How are you feeling?” Sam asked.  
  
“Much better. I think my fever broke, _finally_.”  
  
“Good!” Sam exclaimed.  
  
Bucky looked at him, longing for the moment he could act out the fantasies that had occupied his every waking moment since they kissed. He was well at last. But now wasn’t the time. Or was it? Sam was looking at him, hunger in his eyes.  
  
“So, I guess this means that I can do this,” Bucky said before kissing Sam deeply, and stripping off his white t-shirt.  
  
“ _Damn_ ,” Sam said.  
  
Bucky positioned himself above Sam, who also took off his shirt, and pressed him back down into the bed. Sam, in a surprising show of strength, flipped Bucky over and placed himself on top. Bucky smiled. He did like it better that way. He’d never been with any boy that mattered; it had always just gotten straight to the point. The fact that this was _Sam_ made this special.  
  
Bucky reached up and kissed Sam again; Sam kissed him back and began to stroke his chest.  
  
Then, suddenly, he stopped.  
  
Bucky knew it; he didn’t want this. Maybe he was straight but confused. Maybe it was the metal arm, throwing him off. Maybe it was the fact that he could still see the Winter Soldier in him, still remembered their first meeting, and couldn’t be with him.  
  
It wasn’t surprising at all, really.  
  
“Wait, Bucky. It’s not what you think. I _do_ want to fuck you right here, right now. But I want to do this _right_. I want to take you out on a proper date, at a nice restaurant, and see a trashy movie with you, and _then_ take you back to my bed and fuck you senseless.”  
  
“Are you sure we can’t do both?” Bucky asked mischievously.  
  
Sam threw his hands up in the air.  
  
“The boy does have a fair point,” he said, before quickly stripping entirely. They were completely synchronized, both so ready for this it hurt.  
  
After it was all over, the two curled up in bed together, and Bucky felt safe. And _loved_. It occurred to him that a creature as vile as himself – he wasn’t the Winter Soldier any more, sure, but he’d allowed himself to become him at one point – did not deserve such happiness, but he pushed away the thought, focusing on how good it felt to curl up in Sam’s warmth.  
  
Sam was the first to speak, after minutes of silence.  
  
“So that was a pretty good way to turn this into _our_ bed, wouldn’t you say?”  
  
Stunned, Bucky asked, “Wait, _what_? You actually want me to sleep in _your_ bed?”  
  
“It’d be _our_ bed, and yes, I do.”  
  
“I talk in my sleep. I scream. I toss and turn, a lot,” Bucky explained. Sam knew this. Sam _had to_ know this.  
  
“So? It’s usually loud enough to wake me up from the guest room, anyway. So either way, I’m awake when you have nightmares. You know that.”  
  
“Are you _sure_ , Sam?”  
  
He knew his loudest nightmares woke him. Sam always came over to see if he could help. But if they were in the same bed, he’d wake him _every night_.  
  
“I’m sure.”  
  
“Well, just know that if I don’t let you get any sleep, you’re free to kick me back out to the guest room. I won’t be insulted. I’ll understand,” Bucky said.  
  
“You’re sleeping in our bed from now on, no matter what. You helped me just a little while ago. We both have things that haunt us. So you have a few more than I do. I can live with that. We’ll work on it, together. Okay?”  
  
“Yes,” Bucky said, smiling slightly. “Together.”


End file.
